


Perfect, Not Perfect-Perfect

by sunken_standard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, Canonical Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Infidelity, Multi, Polyamory, also post-tfp, spans series 3-4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-05 18:57:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11584137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: There's love, there's sex, and there's friendship, and it's only in a perfect world all three of those things intersect.There's no such thing as a perfect world.Not for Molly Hooper, at least.





	Perfect, Not Perfect-Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, without spoilers, some of the listed relationships are implied or unrequited, but I'm covering all my bases. It's a lot of things, but primarily this is my exploration of how I could see a Molly/ Mary relationship fitting into canon. Mary still dies and TFP happens just like it did. Everyone's emotions are complicated, the relationships are complicated, and no one wants to use labels.
> 
> Beta'd as always by my brain-twin/ fandom soulmate madder_badder, who knows exactly how to take a sad line and make it better. Not Brit-picked.

There's love, there's sex, and there's friendship, and it's only in a perfect world all three of those things intersect.

 

There's no such thing as a perfect world.

 

Not for Molly Hooper, at least.

 

*

 

She loves Sherlock Holmes with all her heart, even though she doesn't want to. They're friends that can never be more because that's the way things are.

 

She loves Tom with most of her heart and her body, but he's not the kind of person she can get into trouble with.

 

And then there's Mary, the wildcard that came out of nowhere and whose friendship is the easiest she's ever had, so easy that it doesn't seem at all out of place the first time a hug goodbye and a kiss on the cheek ends up missing and turning into something tender and new.

 

New for them, at least. Not for Molly, and probably not Mary, either, judging by her reaction.

 

It's never anything but complicated, except when they're together; they don't need to put a label on things, they don't need definitions. They don't need to think about it, they don't need to talk it to death; the layers of affection and understanding all blend together into something that makes every touch, every kiss something warm and simple.

 

Mary knows everything. She knows that Tom was a cliff to climb against a tide that never seemed to stop rising in the beginning, she knows the thing with Sherlock is always hanging there like an overcast day that refuses to clear or just rain already. Mary gets it in ways men never seem to, and she doesn't ask for anything more than what she offers herself.

 

Molly knows things about Mary. Not a lot, since she doesn't like to talk about the past, but she knows about the fond memories of wild times and the crushing hurts that dent every woman's heart. She knows John is a refuge for Mary in the way Tom is her own refuge, a man who doesn't stand in the way of the things she feels, of who she is. Sometimes Molly envies Mary, envies that she's found all the things in one man that Molly hasn't quite been able to find shared out between two. But it's a fleeting feeling.

 

It's not frantic and forbidden like she thinks having an affair would be; she doesn't think of it as infidelity, even if they're both engaged. It's not a romance, exactly. She couldn't imagine her life without Mary in it, but she couldn't imagine getting a flat and getting a dog and starting a family with her, either. There's nothing like it in the storybooks, nothing like it in the things she's watched on telly. Probably something in other books somewhere that aren't even Utopian science fiction or fantasy, but she's never read them.

 

It doesn't matter; it's theirs and theirs alone. John doesn't know. Tom doesn't know.

 

Sherlock might know. She thinks he wants to ask sometimes because he has an inkling but doesn't understand, but he holds himself back because they aren't like that. They don't talk about relationships except in the occasional throw-away pleasantry when they're both pretending to be normal, functional adults, or when it's related to whatever puzzle he's in the midst of solving. It's just not in the scope of their friendship.

 

It's a little lonely, sometimes, since she knows it's not a thing most people have experience with. Especially not people their age and in their circles. Middle-aged, middle-class, middle-left, middle everything; sometimes it's a rock and a hard place and sometimes it's the safest place to be, but it's never the vanguard of anything.

 

Things change, of course, they always do. Sherlock wedges himself harder between her and Tom and she doesn't even think he knows he's doing it; he's afraid he's losing his friends and she can see it's setting off something very old inside him, intrinsic and reactionary, and he's trying to hold onto her because she's the only one without the strength to push him out. It's like primary school, in a way.

 

Maybe he feels something for John like she does Mary. Sherlock's always been a little lost and nebulous in a way that made her wonder how much like her he might be, somewhere in the water between two clearly-defined shores.

 

As Sherlock pushes her away from Tom, Mary ends up being pulled away from her. It's the wedding; part of it is Sherlock's involvement in the planning. He's trying to make himself indispensable and in so doing is displacing everything around him; Mary is trying to include him in every way she can because he's taking it so hard and she feels responsible. Molly doesn't have as much to say about anything wedding-related as she comes to realize she's not next, her turn isn't guaranteed and probably isn't even coming at all. Suddenly she doesn't have as much in common with Mary, they're not in the same liminal space between single and half of a whole.

 

It was never about the sex with Mary, so when it dries up, it shouldn't hurt as much as it does. It was always about the sex with Tom, so when that dries up, it should hurt a lot more than does. She becomes as much the sexless outsider as Sherlock; she knows that he knows that and instead of understanding and connection and support, there's only uneasiness. He's probably afraid he's next to be cut off and she'll taint him by association.

 

She blames him, sometimes, and she thinks he picks up on that, too.

 

She talks less with Mary as the big day gets closer and the bridesmaids close ranks with their fittings and nail appointments and spa days. Mary had brought up the subject of maid of honour with her months before, but Molly declined because it would just be too weird with Sherlock, the pictures and the dances and all of it. Mary understood. Molly feels awkward and out of place on the hen night; she begs off early with a headache and goes home to a flat that should be empty but isn't.

 

It's still too early to go to bed, so she sits in silence with Sherlock on the opposite end of the sofa watching a marathon of Hammer horror on telly. She wishes he would leave so she could have the good cry she deserves, but she doesn't want to be alone. She knows soon enough she's going to be alone every night and any company is preferable to none.

 

She decides to try to save things with Tom; the sex is rough, desperate, and frequent in the month bracketing her best friend's wedding. It becomes clear that it's not enough after the first few times, but they don't stop until it's so far beyond salvageable that they can't lie to themselves any longer.

 

The wedding itself is beautiful; Mary is radiant and John is the most content she's ever seen him. She manages to swallow down her jealousy for the day and be genuinely happy for them both. She watches Sherlock slip from the room and has the fleeting thought that she'd like to go after him because she understands all too well how his heart's broken.

 

Or she thinks she does until Mary pulls her aside after the first dance and tells her she's pregnant.

 

Molly tears up and pulls her into a hug; she knows Mary and she knows that she's feeling more than she knows what to do with, so Molly takes some of that into herself. She pulls out all the unspoken fears about pregnancy and motherhood and _change_ and leaves Mary with the overwhelming excitement, the satisfaction. She feels like it's the only thing she _can_ do. Mary's levelled-up, reached peak womanhood (all in one day, no less, married _and_ pregnant); Molly's left behind and she's not in a position where she can follow Mary any time soon.

 

Everything goes to shit after that; it ends messy and sad with Tom while Mary and John are still on their honeymoon, Sherlock is AWOL for a month and then suddenly he's dragged into her lab high as a kite, twelve hours later he dies on the operating table twice before they get the bullet out of him. Mary holds her as she falls apart, oddly calm in the face of everything. Someone has to be, she supposes, and Molly's been running on fumes for months so for once, it can't be her.

 

Another week goes by and everything slides sideways again; John's left Mary to go back to Baker Street and she won't talk about it, but it's destroying her. She sleeps in Molly's flat for almost two weeks before the simple comfort of hugs and holding hands before falling asleep turns into something more.

 

It's different, then; there's something broken about Mary that Molly doesn't know how to fix, even if it's not her place to do so. Mary is different, her body is different. Molly thinks for the first time ever she almost understands what it's like to be a man; she watches the way Mary changes and it's alien to her, outside her own experience and sometimes it's difficult to grasp. She tries not to feel like less of a woman because of it. Mary doesn't seem to notice.

 

Mary whispers one night that she wishes she weren't pregnant sometimes. Because of how her body is no longer hers, because she's afraid the stranger growing inside her and who they're going to be, because she's afraid of doing it alone. Because she's always going to be tied to John now, no matter what else happens. She doesn't even know if he wants a divorce because he won't talk to her.

 

Molly never makes the offer to step into John's place, but it's implicit all the same. She never thought she wanted children, doesn't want to carry one herself, but she loves Mary fiercely and she doesn't want her to suffer through motherhood without someone right next to her every step of the way. They wouldn't have to get married and the baby wouldn't call her Mama (to Mary's Mummy) or anything, but they'd make it work like women have been doing without men since before humans were even their own species.

 

Sherlock gets out of hospital after a month and change because the controlled withdrawal from the morphine takes more of a toll on him than anyone expected. He shows up at her flat one night the week after his discharge and doesn't remark on the traces of Mary's presence at all; after the initial shock of the sudden split and the rekindling of intimacy, Mary and Molly came to an unspoken agreement that space and time apart were vital for the health of their friendship and whatever else.

 

He gets into bed beside her for the first time in months and spills every secret that's not his to tell. She doesn't know how to feel; she's angry and betrayed and scared and hurt, but something else clicks into place and she sees Mary more clearly as a person than she's ever seen her before and all the things she was feeling—the anger and the betrayal and the fear and the hurt—she feels on Mary's behalf as well.

 

She looks over to Sherlock in the dark room and she sees a kind of understanding in his eyes that's old and tired and might have been there before without her ever noticing. She wonders if she had it wrong, her suspicions about his feelings for John, or if maybe he has too much crammed into the heart he claims not to have that he doesn't know what to do with any of it.

 

"I have to fix it," he says. "I have to give them a chance. Will you help me?"

 

It's the right thing to do and she knows it; Mary doesn't _belong_ to her, what they have was never about that. She knows she's going to lose something again, but it's not just about her.

 

She sets her jaw and answers with a simple, "Yes."

 

Sherlock nods gravely and his hand finds hers under the blankets; sleep is a long time coming for either of them.

 

Mary and John do reconcile, but not without a cost. Mary is the one to break it to her about Sherlock and what he'd done. Molly doesn't know what to think, but she feels like she's lost both of them in a single day. Mary doesn't know that Sherlock had asked for Molly's help and, with luck, she never would.

 

It doesn't end with Mary, but it changes again; she's no longer almost-single and Molly can't be the third wheel. She listens to Mary when she talks about John and it doesn't really hurt; Molly never felt like she was in competition with him. They're still physically affectionate in ways that are socially acceptable for a married woman and her close friend while in public and slightly more than that in private, though nothing past infrequent kisses and cuddles and warm caresses, and only when they're alone.

 

It changes with Sherlock, too, starting with the day he's let out of prison. He looks at her more in ways she has to remind herself she's probably only reading into. There are times when he seems to be on the verge of saying something—what, she doesn't know—when they're alone together, but he stops himself. He doesn't touch her any more or less than he used to, but there's something about it that's different that she can't quantify. She wonders if it's a way of comforting her, of apologizing for always getting in between her and someone else, but she doesn't think he has the presence of mind to even think about that.

 

Maybe he finally feels the press and squeeze of his own mortality and he's just as afraid of the vast, empty _alone_ as everyone else is, she thinks. She doesn't want to let herself hope that there's anything more to it than that.

 

Mary wonders aloud one day when they're out shopping for nursery things if she should tell John about them before the baby comes; she's trying to be honest with him about everything and she doesn't know if it's the kind of secret she should keep to protect him. Would the truth harm more than it would heal their broken trust and, most importantly, will it hurt Molly?

 

Molly tells her she needs to think about it and Mary squeezes her hand and gives her that smile that sparkles like a diamond; she knows that no matter what she decides, Mary will respect that decision. When she phones her the next day to tell her she doesn't think it's a good idea, at least, not now, Mary agrees with her. It never comes up again, though Molly worries a little sometimes that Mary might tell him anyway because she feels like she has to; she knows it's a completely unfounded fear, considering the other kinds of secrets Mary had no qualms keeping from anyone. People could change, but they usually don't, especially not when it comes to acting in their own best interests.

 

As the days tick down to Mary's due date, they become almost inseparable again; John is off running around with Sherlock on cases almost every spare moment he has, grasping desperately at the adventure and the chaos before fatherhood forces him to dial it back. Mary has her own kind of quiet identity crisis; she's killed and maimed and destroyed lives, how can she ever make the kind of life for her daughter that will be happy and full of love? How can she teach her to be a good person and a strong woman at the same time, when Mary herself could never find a balance point between the two?

 

Molly does her best to reassure her, to tell her she's going to do just fine and she's going to have help. She steals all the affection she can and hoards it, since she knows once the baby is here things will be different.

 

She misses the birth thanks to work and traffic and a much faster labour than anyone anticipated from a first-time mother; less than three hours all totalled. Sherlock meets her at the doors of the hospital and barely takes his eyes off his phone until they're in the lift; he puts his arm around her and pulls her into a weird, happy side-hug, smiling so warmly it melts her heart. He stays in the corridor while she pops in for just a minute; she gives John a hug and squeezes Mary's hand while giving her a kiss on the forehead. She says hello to the newest Watson, red and tiny and already angry at the world; she can't tell if she favours Mary or John but she knows it's only a matter of time.

 

She excuses herself quickly; it's their time together as a new family and she doesn't belong there. The doctors and nurses would be back soon enough to chase her out, anyway. Sherlock gets them a cab and goes with her back to her flat, his phone finally put away as he chatters almost the entire ride about the case and the whole ordeal of the birth; apparently Mary had almost had the baby in the back seat of the car.

 

Once they're in her flat she can't help but hug him; she's just got too many emotions rolling around inside her that range the entire spectrum of joy to grief and she needs another human to hold onto. She isn't surprised at all when they kiss, though she is surprised it's him that initiates it. It's somewhere between needy and sweet, an exultation and a lament and it's apparent that neither of them want it to end with just that, even if they both know it should.

 

She knows they're going to regret it as he follows her upstairs, as clothes come off and she pushes him down to the bed and grabs a probably-expired condom from the bedside table; it's quick and greedy and she has to get herself off right at the very end but it's something she needs. He stays the night and she knows there's something more to it when they go at it again in the morning; this time isn't about the swell of emotion that neither of them could handle the night before.

 

Mary and John retreat into the new rhythms of parenthood, leaving her and Sherlock all the time in the world to figure themselves out and how they fit together. Sherlock continues to run himself ragged with cases, driven by the fear of missing any whisper of who was behind the stunt on New Year's; he spends more nights in her flat and she can almost pretend it's a real relationship. She just can't bring herself to talk about it, she can't let it be more than sex and friendship, even if she wants to believe that this could be it, she could finally have it all.

 

Mary and John re-emerge from their baby bubble after a month; Rosamund Mary is christened and John goes back to solving cases while Mary goes a little stir-crazy. Molly spends more time at John and Mary's. She plays with the baby and tries to give Mary the attention she needs but it's hard when it feels like a line has been drawn between them with finality. Mary is a wife, a mother, moving forward into a stable future with her family. Molly is neither of those things, the perpetual bachelorette forever stuck in the past. 'The grass is always greener' applies to both of them and Molly's not sure how to connect with Mary again like she used to.

 

After another month Mary is still in a slump and it's the baby blues; Molly doesn't want to make it worse by telling her about how things are with Sherlock now, how he sets her body on fire with the lightest touch and how he does things sometimes just to make her smile, even if she knows Mary would be thrilled for the both of them. She never gives unsolicited medical advice, either; Mary's husband is a doctor and if they thought some kind of treatment for postnatal depression was warranted, they would have gone that route.

 

Mary pulls away from all of them and further into herself as the weeks go on. She puts on a good show; even Sherlock notices and, what's more, says something to Molly about it. He confides in her more now than he ever had and she wants to treat him in kind, but she's afraid of what will happen if she says too much. What they have is a fragile thing and she doesn't want to risk breaking it.

 

And then everything goes sideways again; Mary sends her a single text that says **Take care of Rosie for me. xx** and Molly doesn't know what to make of it until Sherlock comes reeling through her door, barely coherent. At first she thinks he's high or severely concussed and his words come out in a jumble, but then she understands. She's afraid that Mary's not thinking clearly; surely there must have been some other way, something else she could do to keep Rosie and John safe.

 

She does what Mary asked of her and arranges to have her workload reduced so she doesn't have to be at the hospital as much; all the paperwork she'd normally do at the lab she does at home or at Mary and John's while she's watching Rosie.

 

Things become a bit strained with Sherlock; everyone is worried, tense, exhausted. She snaps at him and he snaps at her like they've never done before until one night she just breaks down in front of him and she's never been so ashamed of her own weakness in her life. Sherlock promises her he'll find Mary and bring her home and he'll protect her from her past, protect all of them; Molly thinks he needs to say it as much as she needs to hear it.

 

She's still not sure if Sherlock loves Mary in the same way she does, or if he loves John that way, but it really doesn't matter because she thinks he might love her, Molly Hooper, in that way, and it's enough.

 

The weeks wear on until he's sure their window of opportunity to get to her is big enough that they won't be left one step behind; while John is having a moment with his daughter upstairs before they leave, Sherlock kisses her and rests his forehead against hers and promises her again.

 

He phones her and tells her they're coming home, all of them, getting the first flight out they can. She's got Rosie in her arms, fast asleep when she greets them at the door; Mary looks so very tired and small and sad, but relieved. She tears up when Molly hands her daughter over, pulls her into a hug and presses close, whispering a thank-you in her ear before letting her go to just look her fill at the face of her baby. She's been gone two months.

 

Sherlock is quiet in the cab; he only comes to her flat to shower and change and have something to eat before he leaves again, but only after she's wrapped her arms around him and held on and just breathed him in.

 

John phones a few hours later and asks her to come back; he doesn't say 'this is it' in so many words, but she knows that something's got to be happening if Mary is leaving Rosie again so soon.

 

It's only just past sunset and Molly's warming a bottle for Rosie when her phone rings; it's Greg. Her stomach sinks. He asks her if she's holding the baby, calmly tells her to put the baby down and sit down. He repeats himself in his DI tone and she feels like she can't breathe because she knows something terrible has happened. She puts Rosie in her bassinet and perches on the sofa, trying to prepare herself for hearing "Sherlock's dead."

 

It's not Sherlock, it's Mary.

 

She doesn't understand it at first.

 

It doesn't seem possible.

 

It isn't fair.

 

She forces herself to breathe, to remain calm, asks what happened. Greg tells her the bare bones like he would if it were any other murder victim, simple and detached and professional. It grounds her and she remembers who she is; she puts herself into that dissociative headspace of _doctor_ , where everything is mechanical and there is only _procedure_ , a chain of steps to get from one point to another.

 

Molly feeds Rosie because she needs to be fed; the baby fusses because she knows something is wrong. She's a bright one, perceptive, always has been. Mary's influence. Molly pushes the thought away.

 

Sherlock phones and she's afraid to answer but she does anyway.

 

"I'm sorry I broke my promise," he says softly, almost a whisper.

 

She doesn't know how to respond, doesn't want to lie and tell him it's going to be okay. "I know," she says. Then, because something icy tingles along the back of her neck, she asks, "Are you safe?"

 

There are layers to the question and they both know it.

 

"Yes." It's little more than an exhalation.

 

"Stay that way," she says, and it's a plea and a command and she doesn't have the words to tell him that she can't lose him, too, not again, not ever.

 

She doesn't leave John's flat for two full days; he's trying so hard to hold it together and she's terrified for him and truthfully, a little terrified _of_ him.

 

Sherlock doesn't phone and he doesn't text and for once she's glad; she doesn't know how she can face him now. John's told her everything, how the bullet was meant for Sherlock and it was all his fault because he could never keep his fucking mouth shut.

 

She's relieved it wasn't him and she's angry for the same reason; both things make her feel guilty for feeling them. Over it all is the sense of loss so large she can't wrap her head around it. She'd loved Mary as a friend and a lover and a sister and they'd been through too much just to have it taken away like that. They were supposed to watch Rosie grow up together and Mary was supposed to give her her blessing to be with Sherlock when the time came to actually tell her about it and their relationship would have deepened the way wine aged, but that's all gone now.

 

Mary Watson is just a memory.

 

She doesn't want to leave even when Kate-the-neighbour offers to sit with Rosie for a few hours; she finally does when Greg comes round.

 

Sherlock isn't in her flat when she lets herself in, but she knows he's been there because there's a different towel on the bar in the bathroom and a fleck of dried shaving foam in the sink. She showers and packs herself a small bag; she cries while she does it. It's all she'll allow herself. She needs to be in control.

 

John won't have a funeral; she uses her connections and helps him arrange for cremation as soon as the post-mortem is complete. She doesn't get to see Mary's body before she's taken to the crematorium; John goes alone.

 

She's staying in his flat and he barely notices her or Rosie. He begins to pack up all Mary's things and she thinks it's too soon; she rescues the half-empty bottle of Mary's perfume from the bin and when John catches her, she says she wants to keep it for Rosie, something familiar to comfort her. John saves one of Mary's nighties, too, and puts it in Rosie's cot. He's adamant about getting rid of everything else, though he sees sense at least when it comes to the jewellery. He's so blinded by his own grief that he can't think about leaving connections for when Rosie is old enough to know they're missing.

 

Molly might have a different perspective about death than most people, a more healthy acceptance of the inevitability and the senselessness of it, but she's not made of stone. She's hurting in ways she never knew she could because she's never lost anyone this close before to something so violent and sudden and utterly pointless.

 

Sherlock shows up at John's a week to the day after Mary's death and Molly still doesn't know what she feels when she sees him. She's been trying so hard not to think about him at all. She's had to stop herself from phoning more than once. She doesn't want to slap him or spit and curse like she did when she'd first heard, but she doesn't want to collapse into his arms, either.

 

That's a lie, she realizes. She wants to be held, she wants the comfort and security she used to feel with him, but she doesn't think she'll ever feel it again. He made a promise he couldn't keep and she shouldn't hold it against him, but she does. He wasn't the one to pull the trigger, he wasn't the one who put Mary between himself and the bullet.

 

In the end, she doesn't do more than pass on the message and give him John's note; she can see how broken he is and she hurts for him. He's lost someone he loved, too, and he has to live the rest of his life knowing he was the cause, knowing he'd taken Rosie's mother from her.

 

She phones him two nights later, the first night she spends back in her flat since they'd left to go get Mary in Morocco. She wishes Mary had stayed a step ahead of them after all; she'd still be alive.

 

Sherlock doesn't answer. She leaves a voicemail, halting and short; she cuts herself off before she starts rambling.

 

She goes back to work and everyone is extra-nice because gossip travels and they know she's helping take care of her dead best friend's daughter, acting like she's some kind of saint for doing it. She wants to scream because none of them _know_. They can only understand her loss in their limited context. The only person that can begin to understand it hasn't returned her call.

 

A week later he does and when she answers he sounds off; he doesn't ask her how she is, doesn't ask after John or the baby. He gives her a very specific set of instructions and tells her to write them down, repeat them, don't be late, it's important and she'll understand why when she gets there.

 

Food turns to ash in her mouth and she can't sleep without remembering the way Mary felt when she was pressed against her, soft and warm, their legs tangled together in a way that was both innocent and erotic. She remembers the way Mary's lips would twist when she smiled as they kissed, the way she laughed through sex, how it wasn't always slow and sensuous, but there was a kind of gentleness to everything she did. She thinks of Sherlock, too, all hard lines and angles and solidity, but bending like a willow under her hands. She thinks of how desperate it always felt, how needy, even when it was the kind of thing she'd call making love as opposed to sex or fucking. She misses them both so much, and it feels like they're both out of her grasp entirely now.

 

When she arrives on the appointed day and time at the appointed place, she doesn't know what's going on. She hadn't said anything to John about the phone call, even though she sees him or at least talks to him almost every day.

 

She's so angry at Sherlock she can't even speak once they're inside the ambulance; he tells her he can explain and tries to touch her in a way that's meant to reassure, to soothe, but she can't stand the thought of it. She's never been afraid of him for any reason, but being in close quarters with him alone when he's obviously high is unsettling.

 

He does explain while she checks him over, all part of his nonsensical plan. She's already so riled up that she doesn't even realize the significance of Mary's pre-recorded message until much later, when she's on her way back to work and the full scale of the situation hits her. She's irrationally hurt that Mary had anticipated her death and hadn't said anything to her. Mary could have confided in her, maybe they could have worked out a way of faking it or... something.

 

And then John phones and Sherlock's been checked into the hospital for a drug-induced psychotic episode. She sees it on the news and she wants to cry because the weight of her guilt is almost too much. She feels useless, ineffectual, helpless; another person she loves that she couldn't save. Of course it isn't up to her to save anyone and she knows that, but instead of pushing him away, they should have been propping each other up.

 

John phones again in the morning and tells her Sherlock was right; he was off his tits and he was still cleverer than anyone. They talk about what they need to do to get Sherlock clean and keep him that way; it's not like any of the other times he's relapsed. He won't do rehab, they both know it, so they work out a rota between the two of them. Mrs. Hudson gets the day shift, Molly has the overnights, and John takes the mornings and early evenings.

 

Sherlock is discharged the next day, after his flat's been cleaned and searched by Mycroft's people and gone over by John and Mrs. Hudson just to make sure; Molly doesn't tell anyone, but she tosses her own flat as well, even though she's sure she won't find anything.

 

They eat cake and pretend it's just a normal birthday thing. They don't talk about Mary or drugs or Culverton Smith. When they get back to Baker Street and John leaves again, they're left in strained silence. They don't say anything that first night past the blandest, vaguest small talk; she considers sleeping on the sofa but decides making some kind of point isn't worth it.

 

They fall asleep holding hands like they did that night over a year ago.

 

He takes the withdrawal like it's his punishment; she's never seen him so beaten and it kills her. The thing that was between them before Mary is still there, she thinks, but it's on hold somewhere far in the background. They sleep in the same bed, but they don't have sex. He probably won't be physically up to it for months, and psychologically... who knows. The physical affection is a tricky thing; some days it happens and some days it feels like there's an ocean between them. He needs it, she doesn't want it; she needs it, he doesn't want it. It's exhausting in its own right.

 

He's back to work after three weeks; she goes back to living out of her own flat and tries to make up for some of the time she's lost with Rosie. She and John work out a timetable, now that things look like they've settled; he needs the help and she needs the baby. Not just because Rosie is her last connection to Mary, but because she loves her and wants to nurture her and she needs to feel needed now more than ever.

 

Sherlock is distant; he starts doing that thing where he looks like he's going to say something or starts to and stops himself before looking away. She thinks he wants to end it for good, at least the sex-and-whatever-else-it-is part of it. He's been spending more time with John and she wonders if something happened or is happening that she's not a part of and she feels so very alone.

 

She's lost in a spiral of misery of her own making and he's the last person she wants to talk to when he phones; he wants her to say 'I love you' and she just can't understand why he's being like this now. She's so bitter she can taste it in the back of her throat when she pushes back.

 

The words, when she hears them, are terrible. They're everything she's ever wanted and when she closes her eyes, she can almost believe they're real. It hurts so much to say it back, but it's freeing at the same time. Six years of holding it inside and letting it grow and creep through her like a cancer and she's finally cut out the tumour. She doesn't know if she'll ever recover from it. The line goes dead and part of her goes dead, too; she thinks he must have got whatever answer he wanted. When he's not at her door in the generous half-hour it would take him to get to her flat from Baker Street, she knows that there's never going to be an 'us' with Sherlock. He's probably picked John.

 

Oh the irony. She can't even be jealous, really, because it's not like it was ever a race or a contest. He brings different things to the table and ultimately, they're the things people want more than what she has to offer.

 

She sits and stares out her window and wishes she'd told Mary she loved her just once. It wouldn't have changed anything, but maybe her heart wouldn't be so heavy. She stops herself from remembering their last kiss, their last hug, their last anything.

 

Kate-the-neighbour phones her at seven in the evening; she can't reach John and she doesn't mind keeping Rosie, but he's never this late without getting in touch with her, has Molly heard anything?

 

Molly begins to worry; she hasn't actually talked to John since Thursday evening, when she popped 'round to see Rosie. The only thing he mentioned was starting up therapy again the next day; they didn't get into it past that. Saturdays were always a day alone with Rosie and Sundays alternated between taking her along to Baker Street for Sherlock's weekend hours and getting a sitter.

 

She starts to think something isn't right. She puts her feelings aside and rings Sherlock, but it goes right to voicemail; she leaves a short, straight-to-the-point message, then tries John and hopes that he'll pick up for her. She rings Mrs. Hudson and the floor falls out from under her.

 

An explosion, some new enemy and Sherlock and John went off to make things right, that's all she knows. Molly tries not to panic as she makes her way to John's flat; she fetches Rosie from Kate but doesn't tell her the little bit she knows.

 

She phones Greg on the off-chance he knows something more, but he's not answering.

 

At ten, the landline rings. The caller ID says it's Sherlock.

 

It's actually John, using Sherlock's phone. He'd called Kate already and found out she'd taken the baby; he thought there'd be a better chance of her picking up the house phone than taking the call on her mobile. He tells her they'll be back in two hours or so, if she could just hang tight. She hears Sherlock murmuring something in the background and John says they'll explain everything, the phone doesn't have enough battery for the whole story.

 

It's just past midnight when they come trudging in; Rosie's asleep in her cot and Molly's been tidying for something to do because she can't even think about trying to doze off. John gives her a look that has too much in it to read—sadness and empathy and too many other things to name—before he goes right upstairs to Rosie's room without a word.

 

Sherlock stands just inside the door and she knows he doesn't know what to say.

 

"I'm not cross," she blurts, the first thing that comes to mind. It's mostly true; she was and she probably will be again later, but right now she's curious and relieved, but otherwise numb.

 

Sherlock's posture goes from tense to slumped, fight-or-flight to threat-has-passed. "Good," he says, nodding, then repeats himself. "Good."

 

"Are you staying here tonight?" she asks, realizing that yes, she's offering. More than that; she's asking.

 

"I don't think so," he says, understanding.

 

"John, we're going to head out. I'll talk to you tomorrow," she calls softly up the stairs as she gets her coat. He doesn't answer, but that's okay.

 

The car is still waiting outside; not a taxi, one of Mycroft's.

 

They don't speak in the car, even though there's a divider between them and the driver. Whatever's going to be said is going to be said in private, in a safe place for both of them.

 

He says he wants to take a bath and she doesn't know why but she follows him in and stoppers the tub and starts the water while he undresses, his movements tired and mechanical. She helps him in because he's obviously exhausted; he rests his forearms on his drawn knees and drops his head. He stays like that for what feels like forever but can't be more than twenty seconds before he begins to speak. As the words tumble out, she grabs the soap and flannel and begins to bathe him because she can't sit there and listen without doing something.

 

He cries like a child and he's ashamed, but too worn out to do anything about it; when she puts her arms around him he clings like she's the last thing he has left in the world. She helps him out of the tub and dries him off and it should be strange because they've never been this intimate before, even though they've been sleeping together, but it's the only way she can let him know he's loved, he'll always be loved in a way that's deeper than she can ever express.

 

She takes his clothes into the bedroom and hangs his suit, goes back downstairs to get him a glass of water and a plate of biscuits in case he wants to put something in his stomach. He's in bed when she gets back; he drinks most of the water and eats half of a biscuit before setting the plate aside. He watches her undress, then asks her to take everything off.

 

She understands; he curls into her when she gets into bed.

 

"I don't think I can sleep," he says. "I'm afraid to."

 

"I don't have anything in the flat, but I can phone someone at work and have something for you within the hour," she says.

 

"I can't," he tells her simply. She forgets sometimes that even the smallest things can set a chain of dominoes falling.

 

"Sorry."

 

He touches her face, looks at her. She wants to look him in the eye but it's too raw, it's too much.

 

He kisses her. She thinks he's looking for a distraction as much as he is an affirmation of her feelings, his own. He hasn't said he loves her and she hasn't said it to him, either. She doesn't know if she can ever let those words pass her lips again.

 

Even though she's physically and emotionally drained, her body responds. She doesn't fight it. She lets him make love to her with his hands and his mouth before settling between her legs and pushing his half hard cock inside her. Neither of them get off, but it isn't about that anyway. It just feels good to move against each other, with each other, to grasp and hold on and push back. He rolls off of her and onto his back, blankets kicked down to the end of the bed so the sweat can cool.

 

"If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?" he asks after a while.

 

"I'll try," is the best she can do.

 

"Were you in love with Mary?"

 

The question surprises her, enough that she has to think about it. Was she?

 

"I don't... I don't think so. I loved her—I still love her. But I don't think it was 'in-love.' If that makes sense."

 

"It does."

 

There's something about the way he says it that makes her gut clench with dread. She wills him not to say another word because she's afraid he's about to tell her it's the same with him and her and she doesn't think she can hear it.

 

"Can you be in love with someone and still love another person?" he asks. It's not rhetorical. "Not just as a friend. Obviously. Don't you eventually have to choose?"

 

"Maybe? I don't know. Things change all the time in any relationship and you adapt or die," she says plainly.

 

"Were you in love with Tom?"

 

"For a while. I still think about him sometimes with loving feelings, but I don't think I can say that I still love _him_ , though. I love the memories. The good ones," she adds.

 

Sherlock is quiet, ordering his thoughts. She wants to ask, but she doesn't want to know. Not tonight, at least.

 

"It's not fair to ask you if you're in love with me, is it?"

 

She'd assumed something like that was coming, but she doesn't know how to respond to it past, "No, it's not."

 

He glances over at her, the first time he's looked at her since he'd rolled off of her. He looks back to the ceiling, swallows. "I loved Mary and I love John and I love you, but none of those things feels the same. I don't know if I understand the difference between 'to love' and 'in love with.'"

 

"I don't know how to explain it," she says after a moment. She pauses again and he lets her, doesn't ask any more questions even though she's sure he wants to.

 

"I think there was a time that I could have been in love with Mary if I'd let myself be," she begins. "There's a degree of choice to it, I think. You can't help who you love and how you love them, but you can choose the pace of it, I suppose? Or like, the degree. You know when you're putting more into it and getting less out of it than the other person, and sometimes it's just too unequal and you know it's never going to balance? And sometimes there's just something missing that you can't explain, but you just know they're not the one person you want next to you for the rest of your life. Like, as a _partner_ ," she finishes.

 

She can feel all the emotions she's been able to suppress for the last few hours rising up inside her again like a wave of nausea; she really hopes she doesn't cry.

 

Sherlock hums and nods, pressing his lips together between his teeth, working them as he thinks.

 

"I'm not supposed to love anyone," he says finally. "Not—like that, not romantically. Loving a friend, loving family... they're different kinds of bonds and they're... simpler, somehow. More superficial, in a way, easier to handle. Even sexual attraction is manageable. All of those things together in one person, though... I'm not—it's not supposed to be for someone like me."

 

He reaches down and pulls the blankets up and she knows it's not just because he's cooled off, but because he's feeling exposed.

 

She thinks she should address the 'someone like me' thing, but she doesn't even know where to begin and it's not the conversation they need to be having just then.

 

"Just because someone loves you doesn't mean you're obligated to love them back in the same way," she says, and it's as close as she's going to get to saying it, to admitting it in so many words.

 

"Doesn't it? Obviously family is different than a romantic relationship, but isn't there some responsibility to love someone equally when they love you?"

 

He's thinking specifically of his sister, she thinks, but she's still afraid he's trying to tell her without saying it that he's not in love with her.

 

She can't take it any more, she can't hold it in. "Sherlock," she says. "It's okay if you're not in love with me. I know you do love me, even before you said it. We can—we can love each other and it doesn't have to be anything... anything..." She can't find the words. Her chest feels tight and her eyes burn and she knows she's going to cry, just not exactly how much longer she can hold off.

 

"What if I _am_ in love with you?"

 

She laughs and it's a pathetic, watery thing. There's no mirth in it, but it breaks some of the unbearable tension coiled inside her, enough to let her ask.

 

"Are you?"

 

"Yes," he says, and she knows he's looking at her from the corner of his eye, gauging her reaction.

 

She inhales, exhales, lets its sink in. It feels bigger than she thought it would. After the conversation they just had, she's pretty sure they're on the same page about what being in love means—or at least, what it could mean—for the future.

 

"Molly?" he asks, a thread of uncertainty in his voice.

 

"I'm in love with you, too," she says simply, turning her face towards his.

 

He looks at her and it feels like they're seeing each other for the very first time. They are, she realizes; it's like they've only been seeing one another through a screen and it's finally been cast aside. They're Adam and Eve, stripped bare and unashamed.

 

"So wh—what do we _do_?" Sherlock asks.

 

She rolls onto her side, reaches for him. When they're curled together again, she says, "We take it one day at a time, I think. And we talk to each other. And listen. It's about all we can do."

 

"You make it sound so simple," he says.

 

"It can be. It doesn't always have to be hard," she says, then smiles at him, kisses him. She wants him to know how easy it can be when he lets it be.

 

*

 

There's love, there's sex, and there's friendship, and it's only in a perfect world all three of those things intersect.

 

There's no such thing as a perfect world.

 

At least, she used to think.

 

She's not so sure, now. Obviously it's not _perfect_ -perfect, but it's good. There's always going to be something to work through and outside threats always loom, they might find other people and lose people, but they've got each other as much as any two people _can_ have each other. And they've got John; things might change with them in the future and they've talked about it, but nothing's happened yet. It's not a race, it's not a contest.

 

It's a life, and she's making the most of it.

 

 


End file.
